


What Makes You Beautiful

by soaringrachel



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, well Clintasha if you want it to be anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaringrachel/pseuds/soaringrachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha, Clint, a truckload of guilt, and a boatload of love, for about a year. </p><p>(Oh, and I have no shame about 1D being my writing jams. The story has less than nothing to do with the song, unless you're me.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Makes You Beautiful

Clint doesn’t realize just how much Natasha trusts him until he notices that everybody seems to think of her as  _confident_. Even Fury—telling a new recruit to emulate Agent Romanoff’s confidence even more than her skill.

Bravado, yeah, she’s got, and the rookies would do well to try some one. Security in her skills—well, how could she not, with the way they’ve been proven? But confidence? He’s known confident people, the way they’re always certain of themselves, always sure what they’re doing is exactly what they ought to be. Natasha’s not one of them. (Neither is he).

_* * *_

Every time Clint sees Natasha dressed up he makes the same joke to himself—she gives new meaning to the phrase “turning heads”. She’s stunning, of course, (another one that has a double meaning for Natasha. He once called her a real knockout. Big mistake.) but that’s not why everyone turns to look at her and doesn’t look away. They know she could turn their heads in a more literal sense—hey, at this party, most of ‘em have seen her do it, or something similar. She is, to them, always the glittering Black Widow, beautiful and terrible. (Clint just sees Tasha, which is how he can make jokes when faced with a woman like  _that_.)

_* * *_

After the party she comes and talks to Clint, taking off her earrings and gossiping. He thinks maybe she’s had a little to drink, because she seems relaxed in a way she usually only does on a mission. She washes off the glossiness, too, splashing her face in his sink, getting her hair soaked with water instead of sweat and blood. He kinda wishes she could be this way always, the fighter without the fight.

_* * *_

Only he doesn’t wish that for long—can’t after he sees Natasha working again, remembers how glorious it is. He’s never been a hand-to-hand man himself, if he can help it, and what Natasha does in a fight may fascinate some men, but he’s not one of them—but it’s impossible not to be fascinated by  _her_. She’s amazing, a goddess, and here, at least, she knows it—Natasha may never be quite sure if she’s in the  _right_ fight, but she sure knows she’s going to win.  _I love to see you do your thing_ , he tells her, and there’s another appropriate phrase—it is her thing, entirely.

_* * *_

He watches her, in New York, and she’s uncertain. He can tell, even if no one else can. She thinks she’s not steadfast like the Captain or selfless like Banner or spectacular like Stark or  _something_ like Thor. Of course, she never realizes for a moment that they’re all trying to be her, the professional among amateurs, the woman who knows she’s going to win among the men who have lost so much. Clint is especially, still trying to make up for … well, he doesn’t want to talk about it. But he manages to pull out of that enough to see—god damn, she’s impressive. And god damn, she doesn’t think so.

_* * *_

And then they’ve won, which is the best feeling in the world. It’s funny how celebrating together is the same as fighting together—he and Tasha start to fall into their old pattern, easy as breathing, and then they realize it’s a different pattern now, with all six of them there.

_* * *_

And then it’s back to their ordinary work, if you can call it that, and Natasha, now that she’s opened it up, is back to her guilt, like she never was before, like she hasn’t just saved the world (and more publicly, even, than she usually does). Oh, she can play it cool, but Clint knows her. “There’s red in my ledger”? Sure, but she carries that ledger in a  _very_ inside pocket. Maybe too close to her heart to pull it out and make corrections.

_* * *_

Whenever he hears a song that says “I want you” he thinks of Natasha.

He doesn’t mean “ _that_ way”, in his own ever-mature way of putting it. And yes, he knows she’s hot, but what he means is he wants her on his team. He wants her at his side in a fight, he wants her squabbling over bites of disgusting stakeout food, he more than anything wants her to always be the person at the other end of the comm.

_* * *_

They’re grabbing sandwiches and she’s tossing her hair a little bit and the counter guy’s heart is in his Adam’s apple, and he knows she isn’t proud of herself for what they’ve just done.

He’s watching the tape of her coolly, calmly, twisting yet another so-called professional around her little finger, getting everything she needs without having to touch him, let alone bring in a weapon, and he’s seen her do this a thousand times and he  _still doesn’t know how she does it_ and she just says she’s got certain skills and she uses them.

And they’re talking about getting the band back together, and he can tell she still feels scared that she doesn’t belong there, and sure that she  _has_  to go, that everything she’s done since he met her hasn’t even begun to pay off her debt, when as far as he’s concerned everything she did before she met him is not just crossed out but erased.

_* * *_

Red in her ledger, indeed. She’s not called the  _Black_ Widow for nothing, if Clint has anything to say about it.

_* * *_

But hey. She’s also called Natasha Romanoff. And he cares about her stupid, self-effacing, always-feeling-like-it’s-not-enough self.

Of course, she feels the same way about him.

_* * *_

He blames himself, the bastard. Of course he blames himself. Never mind that it patently  _wasn’t his fault_.

But then—well, “best friends” wasn’t the right word for what they had, and anyway  _she’s_ Clint’s best friend last she looked, but they had something, he and Coulson.

Natasha’s not sure  _what_ to call it, actually, but she’s never been overly concerned with what things are called.

She’s more about what things are and aren’t, and in this case that would be this:

Agent Barton was compromised by the enemy.

Agent Barton was compromised by an enemy far greater than any enemy any of them had seen before.

Agent Barton was compromised by an enemy that managedto kill Phil Coulson (who knew  _that_  was possible?), an enemy that a whole new force was created to defeat, an enemy that they had to bring in the  _Hulk_ to destroy.

Agent Barton was compromised by an enemy that Agent Romanoff was happy to face … when he was locked in the most secure cage on the planet and she already thought she had his number.

So anything that might have happened as a result was not, could not be, Agent Barton’s fault.

But he blamed himself.

_* * *_

Another fancy party, another awkward night for Natasha.

She knows everyone loves to see her all dressed up, that she’s something to see, the black widow with her skeleton all shined up, and it’s not as much that she feels out of place (a great spy never feels out of place, and fancy parties are as much a part of the job as spitting out teeth) as it is that everyone else thinks she must.

And that they’re all staring at her, if she’s honest with herself.

But tonight they’re staring at Clint as much as they are at her. It’s his first time in public, or what passes for public at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, since it all happened, and he thinks (rightly in some cases, wrongly in others, and how is it he can trust implicitly in her ability to read people when they’re on a mission and still not believe her when she tells him exactly which morons would actually feel that way) that just as he blames himself, they all blame him.

So she walks over and pulls him into a dance. Might as well make it easy for people—no need to decide who to focus their eyes on now.

_* * *_

It takes her a while to find him, but she is not the greatest spy of her generation for nothing, and she has the advantage of knowing him very well. It’s only a matter of  _which_ high-up, secluded vantage point he chose.

While she looks, she thinks about what to say. He’s been hiding all week. She knows he’ll bristle if she calls it that, but what else can she call it? They start planning Coulson’s funeral, and he disappears. (Coulson’s mother thinks he still works for the CIA, and the CIA was not involved in the conflict with Loki. As far as she knows, his ashes are being returned from an “undisclosable foreign location.”) So someone needs to find him. But how to confront him without sending him away?

Instead, he beats her to it.

“I’m hiding.”

It’s the same old story—he thinks he’s to blame, and he thinks everyone else does, too.

“No one,” she tells him, “except Troy, and when have you ever known Troy to be right?”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like him and it  _should_. Sometimes—Natasha knows this—you do things wrong enough that you don’t get to be happy. Clint hasn’t done that. Not yet. (Natasha thinks he never will, but that’s when you have to be careful.)

_* * *_

Clint’s never been big on eye contact (at least, in conversation), which is her excuse for not realizing he isn’t making  _any_ until it’s been two months.

In fact, she only figures it out when she sees he won’t even meet his own eyes in the mirror.

Being Natasha, she immediately grabs him by the chin and makes him look at her.

“What is it?” she asks. “Why won’t you  _look_ at anyone?”

She looks at him, cool blue eyes in a rough face, and realizes. It all comes back to those five words, doesn’t it?  _Agent Barton has been compromised_. Even his eyes. Irretrievably compromised.

_* * *_

Fury is making them talk to the public. Apparently, this is a crucial part of being an Avenger.

Natasha shakes hand after hand and gets leered at by middle-aged men and notices how none of the little boys even get in her line (Clint is swarmed by them).

The first teenage girl catches her off guard.

“So,” she whispers, “what’s the Hawk like in person?”

Natasha stares at her. “He’s right over there. Go find out.”

“I know, but… if you know him! Isn’t he  _so_ hot?”

Natasha blinks a couple times, and the girl leaves, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “of course she’s a lesbian.”

This is repeated again and again, with countless teenage girls and a surprising number of teenage boys—apparently Clint has a huge gay following.

He is hot, she supposes, in a strong-arms-and-straight-teeth kind of way. Natasha usually prefers something a little more  _complex_.

It’s strange to realize that strangers have crushes on Clint, have opinions about his personality, imagine conversations with him. She’s so used to being one of a very, very few who can say they know him.

_* * *_

He had no idea.

“I’m the  _gay Avenger_? The  _gay Avenger_?”

“You gotta problem with gay people, Barton?” Fury asks, lip twitching.

“It’s just—it’s not very  _macho_.”

“You wear a purple sleeveless vest, Barton. Gay Avenger is kind.”

“The Cap wears all-over spandex! That’s  _gay_!”

“Captain Rogers is a paragon of American masculinity. You’re some guy in purple who’s never had a public love interest.”

“I’ve never been a public figure—” Clint dissolves into spluttering at this point.

_* * *_

But he  _owns_ it.

Four days after the spluttering, you can turn on the TV and see “Clint Barton—The Avengers’ ‘Hawkeye’” in an ad campaign against anti-gay bullying.

Three weeks after the spluttering, states where voters will be deciding on same-sex marriage are getting a visit from the man himself, where he refuses to give a shooting demonstration.

“More important things are at hand right now. In the Avengers, I saved the world by shooting arrows. Now I’m trying to save it with words.”

(After the first few visits he realizes he can save it better if he shoots a few arrows too, and draws in the kind of crowd that wouldn’t usually come to a gay-rights rally.)

A month and a half after the spluttering, Natasha sees Clint shake the hand of a sixteen-year-old and tell him it’s an honor to meet him, and she is so proud.

_* * *_

When they’re all assembled again, Stark teases him, of course.

But she sees Banner give him a little respectful nod, hears Rogers ask if he can come along next time.

Clint says sure to the Captain (Cap, everyone but her calls him now), ignores the nod, blushes at the teasing, tells Natasha later that he hasn’t done anything really, and anyway, he barely deserves to be at that table. She was hoping he wouldn’t be thinking of  _last time_ , but it’s obvious he can’t think of, couldn’t think of anything else.

And she has to admit it is terrible having  _Cap_ around without Coulson there to squeal about it.

_* * *_

Clint and Natasha, Natasha and Clint. Once again they don’t realize how much of a unit they’ve been until it’s so hard to adjust to the different dynamic. Once again everyone makes the mistake of thinking this is only a romance and gets blindsided when they realize it’s something more. Once again people get hurt, and people blame themselves, and people don’t quite work off what they were already shouldering the blame for. Once again everybody drives away at the end, leaving Hawkeye and Black Widow sad and deflated like the co-hosts of a birthday party, one that leaves rubble strewn around instead of balloons.

_* * *_

But first there is the team, so different from their ordinary work.

The teasing, the praise, the odd sensation of not having to choose between an ally at your back or at your side.

They fight.

_* * *_

Red flashes in Natasha’s vision—the blinking light of an explosive arrow soaring to its mark.

_* * *_

Red spots all over the battleground—a cape, a shield, a suit, a spray of blood.

_* * *_

Red streaks in the corner of Clint’s eye—a lock of hair, whipping too fast to follow.

_* * *_

They save the world.

_* * *_

And then it’s just Clint and Natasha, Natasha and Clint. Not really Hawkeye and Black Widow once the others have left. Not even Agents Romanoff and Barton, in this moment. Just best friends in silly outfits.

They get a bite to eat, because what else can you do. Natasha wonders if it’s too soon to start an email to Bruce. Clint speculates about new costumes that don’t look quite as metrosexual.

But they end up, as they always do, in Clint’s room. Him on the bed, her pacing around, just like it was a week ago, just like it was a year ago.

_* * *_

She’s upset again. Something just came to light maybe, or she’s just remembering it, or for whatever reason she’s thinking about it again, the things she’s done.

When she does this he wants to sit her down and say, “Don’t tell me. Let  _me_ tell  _you_  about the things you’ve done.”

He wants to bring her up to speed on every mission they’ve gone through together, and every one Fury’s sent her on on her own (even the ones that Clint’s only been allowed to hear rumors about). He wants to give her the rundown on the Avengers, how they wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without her, how they would have lost each battle a dozen or more times over without Natasha Romanoff, how she inspires them all. And that would lead him to the things she’s done that aren’t so public, the things she’s done for  _him_.

But he can’t, because she wouldn’t listen. Or she would and he’d make it worse.

_* * *_

He finds out the reason. Someone tried to give her a commendation.

He’d like to hurt the idiot.

_* * *_

She knows how it would go, if she had her way.

“You’re having trouble seeing,” she would start out, because she knows it would put him at ease. And then she’d explain to him: it wasn’t his fault, none of this was his fault, they are all so grateful to him, so in awe of him, the idea that he is to blame has never crossed any mind but his own. (At least, any mind that matters.)

Natasha is capable of being philosophical about not having her way, but about this she is incapable of being anything but furious.

_* * *_

The anniversary. Natasha’s wiser now, remembers the funeral, braces herself, plans.

She expects another round of hide-and-seek—what she gets is almost worse.

He’s his usual Clint self, except for he’s not. She’s more afraid to meet his eyes now and see nothing behind them than she was to look a year ago and see Loki.

Although that was pretty damn scary.

But she did it then, and she does it now, looks at him and starts on coaxing him out of hiding.


End file.
